


Waking Up Slow

by the_moonmoth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gabriel is an anti-masker and a dick, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Only One Bed, Sexual Tension, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), canon typical drinking, love is warm feet, nothing bad happens to anyone except Gabriel, oh no we have to isolate together, pandemic au, soft winter romance by the sea, the sexually charged ordeal of adjusting someone’s clothing, thirst wallow, trying to conduct a zoom meeting while your flatmate walks around naked in the background, wow that's really a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: “Then you’ll just have to come back with me," Aziraphale said.“You what?”“You’ll have to come and isolate with me, at my cottage.”The thing about messing with people, Crowley thought, was that sometimes, they genuinely surprised you.After both being exposed to coronavirus, total strangers Crowley and Aziraphale are forced to wait out their isolation together. A tale of soft winter romance by the sea.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 792
Kudos: 411
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the pandemic au nobody asked for. Facing down my own covid winter, I wanted to write something soft, cozy and romantic, so here we are. Despite the premise, I will say up front, nothing bad is going to happen to anyone except Gabriel, and even then only minor badness is coming his way. 
> 
> Having written an outline for the first time in my life (wahoo!) I'm going to post chapters on the fly with a certain level of confidence that this will get done, but there is no schedule, so just be aware of that going in. With thanks to @ajconstantine, @luritto, @peepingnee, @sigridkaffen and @mia-ugly for the brainstorming, and @trelevona for the information on rock-climbing. Going unbeta'd because I don't have the bandwidth for it -- this is for fun, moreso even than usual. Enjoy :)

**Prologue**

Aziraphale reached up to adjust his mask for about the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time stopped short and reminded himself not to touch his face. The problem was, he was anxious, and when he was anxious he fidgeted, and there was nothing more anxiety-inducing in the midst of a global pandemic than being forced into a small enclosed space with other people who may or may not have been practising sensible precautions. Aziraphale generally erred on the side of believing the best in people, but he unfortunately knew some of his co-workers rather too well. 

At least the lift had been empty. 

But now, here he was, sitting in Gabriel’s office waiting for his boss to arrive for their meeting, fretting over the decidedly aggressive smile his PA had given Aziraphale when he’d asked him politely to wear his mask properly instead of allowing it to imitate a hammock for his regrettable dental work (he hadn’t said the last bit out loud, of course, but he’d felt his tone conveyed the sentiment) and wondering if Sandalphon had touched any of the same buttons or door handles that Aziraphale had, and whether the ventilation system was up to standard.

It probably was. This was probably fine. He was thirty floors up in a barely-inhabited building that was less than a decade old (exactly _why_ the director of a small charity needed an office in such a modern, expensive, shiny glass box of a skyscraper, Aziraphale knew better than to question -- he knew better because Gabriel had told him to stop) and, oh look, this window here could actually be slid open a few inches to let a little bit of breeze flow into the room.

Aziraphale took a deep, calming breath, returned to his seat, and didn’t fuss with his mask.

Gabriel finally showed up half an hour later. Aziraphale pointedly didn’t think the words _waltzed in_ , but the man didn’t make it easy for him. 

“Aziraphale,” he boomed, “how’s it going?” But Aziraphale was too busy being horrified to immediately reply. Gabriel was holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand and his mask in the other.

“Gabriel,” he eventually managed to get out. “How pleasant, uh, what a pleasant, uh…”

“Everything all right there?” Gabriel asked jovially. “Need a moment to reboot?”

“Well, uh, no, I just wonder if…”

“Yes?”

“I hate to be a bother, but, your mask?”

“Oh?” Gabriel held it up, dangling from his finger by one ear-loop of elastic, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, right, of course! Jenkinson’s, on Savile Row.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My taylor -- keep up, Aziraphale. I had him custom-sew me a bunch when they changed the stupid rules about wearing masks indoors.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said with careful emphasis. “Just remind me, what are those rules again?”

Gabriel made a gesture that was somewhere between a shrug and a turtle pulling in its head. “Not my department. Jesus it’s cold in here. Is it cold in here? Why is it so cold in here?”

And he went to the window Aziraphale had opened, and closed it.

“Those cleaners,” he said with a genial eye-roll, inviting Aziraphale to join in the absurdity that was the thought processes of menial workers. “It’s the middle of winter!” And then he sat down, slurping on his coffee, and started talking in that American way that made it impossible to interrupt him.

Forty-five interminable minutes later, Aziraphale had a stream of cold sweat running down his back, and he’d only been able to take in one of every five words to come out of Gabriel’s uncovered mouth, but the man finally rose to his feet with an ostentatious stretch, and said, “I’ll have Sandalphon email that list to you so you can set up some Zoom dates. That’s one good thing about this pandemic crap, eh, Aziraphale? You can get your job done with a fraction of the budget.”

“Ha ha,” Aziraphale said, holding back hysteria by a fingernail and attempting to edge unobtrusively towards the door. “Quite.”

“When this is all over we’ll undoubtedly have to review our spending practises. I’m sure there are savings to be made with all this new--” he waved a hand-- “ _technology._ ”

“Yes, certainly.”

“So long as you can handle it,” he said -- rather condescendingly if Aziraphale were being honest. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore.”

Which was a bit rich, considering Aziraphale was pretty sure they were similar in age, but hardly worth taking offense over, given the circumstances.

“Yes, Gabriel, I do know my job. I’ve been here, doing it, since the beginning,” he said, taking offense nonetheless. 

Gabriel chuckled loudly and clapped him on the shoulder far harder than was comfortable. “Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

Aziraphale emphatically did not want to get in the lift with Gabriel still unmasked, but as it happened, Gabriel actually meant the stairs, which was its own kind of hell.

“Buck up, Aziraphale,” he said, noticing his expression as he led him, hand still on his shoulder, over to the fire door. “A little bit of exercise will do you good. Look at me -- so-called positive test last week and I’m still fighting fit.”

Gabriel had chucked him playfully in the gut, not hard but somewhat mortifying, which was why it took a moment for the words to compute. But when they did, he froze in disbelief. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?”

“No!” Aziraphale said. “No, Gabriel, you did not.”

“Hey,” Gabriel said, bending at the knees to look Aziraphale in the eye. “Don’t freak out! I don’t even feel sick, it’s fine.”

“That’s not how it works,” Aziraphale said faintly.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous! We’re all healthy here.” Another pointed look at Aziraphale’s middle. “Nobody’s going to get sick.”

“I…” Aziraphale started, but there was nothing he could say in that moment that wouldn’t result in a disciplinary action from HR. And so he turned around, and bolted for the lift instead.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only done the most basic of research for this fic, and though I am English, I haven’t lived there for a while now, so apologies in advance for any gross inaccuracies or misrepresentations. THAT SAID, I'm planning to ride merrily roughshod over Actual Reality on a number of occasions herein. So. Here are some ropes to suspend any stray disbelief hanging about ;) Also, I'm sure it goes without saying, but don't take your medical advice from fiction, kids! I'm just a fanfic author with internet access. Also also I *really* miss the NHS.
> 
> Thanks to summerofspock for the kind offer of their lightning-quick editing services. Content warning for depictions of Covid symptoms.

**Chapter 1**

_D. Mangat: Hello you’ve reached NHS-24, this is Davina Mangat speaking. Are you currently experiencing any of the following symptoms: cough, shortness of breath or difficulty breathing, fever or chills, loss of taste or smell, sore throat, unusual fatigue, body aches, headaches, or any other Covid-like symptoms?_

_Patient #35792-54: Hello, Doctor. No, nothing like that._

_D. Mangat: I am legally obliged to tell you that I am a medical student, not a doctor. Can I take your name, date of birth and phone number please?_

_Patient #35792-54: [Information provided]_

_D. Mangat: So, Mr. Fell, how can I hel-- [yawn] --excuse me! How can I help you today?_

_Patient #35792-54: You sound exhausted, my dear. Has it been a long shift?_

_D. Mangat: ...you could say that._

_Patient #35792-54: Why don’t you go and grab a cup of tea. I can wait._

_D. Mangat: No, that’s fine, I’m-- [yawn]_

_Patient #35792-54: I insist._

_D. Mangat: Oh all right then. [...] Okay, I’m back. Thank you for, well. That was generous of you._

_Patient #35792-54: Not at all. It’s the least I can do._

_D. Mangat: Well, I appreciate it. So how can I help you?_

_Patient #35792-54: I’ve, um-- Unfortunately I believe I’ve been exposed to the novel coronavirus._

_D. Mangat: I see. When did this happen?_

_Patient #35792-54: Today. This afternoon._

_D. Mangat: Okay, tell me what happened._

_Patient #35792-54: I had a meeting with my boss in his office that lasted about three-quarters of an hour. He wasn’t wearing a mask. No windows open. I believe we spent the majority of the meeting within two metres of each other and, just as I was leaving, he informed me he’d tested positive for Covid-19._

_D. Mangat: Wow. Okay. Yeah, that’s… a lot of bad words that good little medical students would never use in a professional setting._

_Patient #35792-54: I couldn’t have put it better myself._

_D. Mangat: Were you wearing a mask?_

_Patient #35792-54: Yes. I take the pandemic seriously._

_D. Mangat: And the NHS thanks you for that, Mr. Fell. Okay, so provided there was no close face-to-face contact--_

_Patient #35792-54: Good God no._

_D. Mangat: Then this is a moderate risk situation, since your mask will have given you a little bit of protection, but you will need to isolate yourself. You’ll need to wait 5-7 days before you can get tested, and then unfortunately, it might be quite a wait for your results as the labs are pretty backed up, so prepare to stay home for the full fortnight._

_Patient #35792-54: Yes, of course._

_D. Mangat: Is there anyone else in your household?_

_Patient #35792-54: ...no, no, just me._

_D. Mangat: That makes things simpler. I’ll have an isolation note emailed to your employer, and transfer you to your local testing centre to book an appointment. Is there anything else I can help you with before I do that?_

_Patient #35792-54: No, my dear, you’ve been most helpful. Thank you._

_D. Mangat: Good luck, Mr. Fell. Drink lots of fluids!_

* * *

Those first five days, Aziraphale dutifully worked from home, just as he always should have done. The sluggish machinery of the HR department had finally groaned into motion, rapped Gabriel across the knuckles, and told him to stay home, too. It was something, at least, although Gabriel did not seem especially chastened on any of his daily phone calls. 

But Aziraphale felt, on the whole, that he was coping just fine, until the morning of the fifth day arrived and he walked into the testing area set up in the car park of his local GP’s office. The procedure itself was deeply uncomfortable, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the people. The poor, tired people, working outside on a cold January day, layered up with so much protective clothing you could barely see a strip of skin across their eyes. And he wondered, is this my future? Will I go home, get steadily more and more ill until I’m admitted -- isolated, untouchable, and alone? Needing a tube to breathe and putting anyone who even comes in the room with me at risk?

It was all a bit much. 

He went home afterwards, made a cup of tea, and stared at it blindly as he let Gabriel’s call go to voicemail, and he came to understand that he very much needed to be Not Here.

So he called in a favour and borrowed a car, and drove nonstop to his grandmother’s cottage, which was as isolated as anyone could hope to get these days, but more importantly, not within feasible punching distance of Gabriel. (Not that Aziraphale would ever resort to violence. Only that he felt that he might like to, and that was bad enough.)

The cottage itself was a bijou affair. Bedroom, kitchen, living room with an open fire. His family had property dotted all over the country, with more than one sprawling estate, but Grandma had valued the ability to retreat from the rest of them and enjoy a bit of coziness, and Aziraphale couldn't fault her for that. It sat in several acres of private land which, in the summer, Aziraphale enjoyed sitting out in, but was now rather crispy and dead. All the better, really -- even less chance of walkers tromping through unexpectedly. 

As he hauled a single, battered suitcase through the kitchen door, he caught a post-it note fluttering in the draft. Rescuing it from the tiled floor, he read:

_Fridge and cupboards are stocked. Let me know if you need anything, and call me immediately if you start to feel poorly! Tracy x_

“You are a treasure, my dear,” he said out loud, blinking rapidly, and went to put the kettle on. When he found it ready-warmed he really did have to take a moment.

* * *

The mobile signal at the cottage was dire, the wifi was patchy at best, and over the years Aziraphale had stocked it chock full of books, which was perfect because there was a lot of work he was intending to avoid over the next week and a half.

He spent the evening settling in, unpacking his things (clothes, a few more books, scented candles -- the essentials) and setting a fire. Then, once everything was to his liking, Aziraphale heated up the lasagna Tracy had left for him and cozied up by the hearth with a shamelessly frothy romance novel and a glass of wine that might more accurately have been described as a fishbowl.

The thermostat clicked off at 9:34pm exactly, just as it always did -- bloody, broken thing -- but he stayed up until the fire burned itself down to embers. It caused him to have to dash through the bedtime necessaries in a race against the cold, but he went to sleep with the warm feeling of someone getting one over a much maligned boss.

It was a shame, then, that he went ahead and listened to Gabriel’s voicemail over breakfast the next morning. 

_Aziraphale! Hey! Hope you manage to find this voicemail, I know it’s not your usual carrier pigeon._

Aziraphale raised his eyes to the ceiling and was half-way through a prayer for patience when Gabriel’s normal boorish laugh petered out alarmingly into wheezes. 

_Sooo, yeah, seems like there might be something to this “Corona Virus” thing after all. Who’d’a thunk it, right?_

More wheezing.

_My personal physician recommended bed rest. I know! Even for someone in my shape._

“Personal physician,” Aziraphale tutted. Most likely Gabriel had called up BUPA. “Where was _he_ a week ago?”

_So you’re on your own for the next however long. Probably just a couple of days until I kick this germ’s butt. I’ve got a whole… juice cleanse thing… it’ll be great..._

His voice was getting more and more breathless until it was barely more than a strained rasp.

_Anyway, gotta go. Don’t go overboard on those digestive cookies while you’re hiding out at home, I know what you’re like!_

The voicemail ended in a spectacular cacophony of expectoration, and Aziraphale took a passive aggressive bite of his third chocolate digestive. 

How bothersome that Gabriel would now be none the wiser about Aziraphale’s little act of rebellion. 

Oh, but he was being awful. Poor Gabriel had sounded rather bad. Maybe he should--

No, actually. How many people had Gabriel potentially infected, Aziraphale included, before he’d finally decided to take it seriously? He was perfectly capable of living with the consequences of his actions, and if he wasn’t, well, there was always his _personal physician._

* * *

That was how the day went. Aziraphale tried to read, but it was no good, and instead he spent the time swinging back and forth between extremes of a rather novel disdain for Gabriel’s welfare, and an all-too-familiar guilt. It was utterly unfair, all things considered, that he couldn’t even enjoy his extremely well-organised skiving off, because he couldn’t stop worrying over bloody Gabriel. 

At least it was keeping him from dwelling on the precarious state of his own health.

It was just, they’d known each other such a long time, ever since East London Angels had first been incorporated, and yes Gabriel could be -- difficult -- at times, but he wasn’t _all_ bad. He did work for a charity, after all. Or… directed it. Whatever that meant. The point was, he could be a little thoughtless, and often needed careful handling, but he wasn't… and oh, there Aziraphale went again, dwelling on his boss when a perfectly lovely beach-side meet cute was about to take place.

He put the book down in resignation, and went to get his shoes. Strictly speaking he wasn’t supposed to leave his home, but this _was_ private land, so surely that counted? He’d double mask, just to be sure -- you did get the occasional rambler exercising their right to roam, even in the dead of winter -- but it was blustery out, and threatening rain. The odds of running into anyone were vanishingly small and, quite frankly, enough was enough.

* * *

The walk to the cliff tops was just what he needed, a bracing, invigorating stroll down the winding track between the grasses and granite rocks. Aziraphale had begun to feel better the moment he’d stepped outdoors, but now with a view of the sea, he finally began to calm down. It was overcast, but there was enough light for the choppy waves to snatch it up in little glittering handfuls, and Aziraphale was grateful all over again for his grandmother's opaque reasoning in choosing him, of all his cousins, to leave this land to. His own wild and windswept Eden.

The wind whipped through his hair, caught the ends of his scarf, and Aziraphale breathed deep.

He was immediately disappointed. Two masks, it transpired, were rather too many to appreciate the smell of the salt air. He sighed, steeled himself, checked again that he was completely alone, and removed first one, then the other of his masks. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled. _Divine._

“Lovely view.”

The voice was low, with the slightest hint of gravel, and right next to Aziraphale’s ear. He made an undignified noise and spun round in fright.

“Where the devil did you-?” he started, high-voiced, before his foot caught on a stone and he lost his balance. The stranger was standing so close that Aziraphale toppled right into him, and the pair of them went down together in a tangle of knees and a solid thunk to the forehead.

“Ow,” the man said, squinting up at Aziraphale, gaze unfocused, before his eyes fell closed.

“Oh no!” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh dear. What do I-?” He’d left his blasted phone at the cottage, now of all times when he actually needed it! With an unconscious man lying before him! And it was _all Aziraphale’s doing!_

“I can-- I can-- I know what to do!” he told himself, attempting belatedly not to panic. The best thing to do was not to think too hard. Tipping up the stranger’s chin, Aziraphale pinched his nose and lowered his face until his mouth closed over the other man’s.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one was going to tell me that I forgot to include a fic summary, huh? D:
> 
> With thanks to summerofspock for the line edit and cheerleading <3

**Chapter 2**

Crowley came over the top of the cliff and saw an angel.

That was the only explanation for what he did next. He was hot and sweaty from the climb up from the beach, and he’d full on forgotten about pulling up his gaitor, but the man standing at the little viewpoint on the outcropping a few metres away was the kind of beautiful that generated its own gravity. Like the best kind of art, it drew you in. And so before Crowley could even think about it, he’d sidled up to the man’s shoulder and uttered an especially bad pun about the view. 

He’d been rather pleased with it.

What he had failed to factor in (if any part of it could be considered to be factored at all) was that the noise of the wind had completely obscured his approach, and the intended target of his bad flirting had jumped a mile, tripped on something, and nutted Crowley with all the force of a seasoned Glaswegian on a Saturday night. 

He was, to put it mildly, slightly dazed. And then to top it all off, as he lay on the ground, the sun burst through the clouds right behind the man’s head, silhouetting his face and illuminating his pale hair in a radiant halo, and Crowley had to increase his dazed level to ‘decidedly’.

It was bright, was the thing, and he couldn’t remember where his sunglasses were at that particular instant, but the important point was that they were not on his face, and so he closed his eyes and decided to give himself a minute.

When he opened them again, the man -- the _heart-stoppingly beautiful_ man -- was bending over him, face so close to Crowley’s he could feel the warmth of his breath in place of the wind. And then he was -- kissing Crowley? And okay, this was nice! Unexpected but not at all unwelcome, only he could do without the nose-pinching… and that was when he realised he couldn’t breathe.

“Not that this isn’t extremely pleasant,” he said, pushing the man gently away, “but do you think you could--?”

“Oh, thank you, Lord!” the man spluttered, releasing him and sitting back on his heels. He was astride one of Crowley’s thighs, a fact that Crowley felt a little unequal to processing just then.

“Ha,” Crowley said instead, blinking up at him, still slightly breathless. “Knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Had a near death experience, saw an angel.”

The man looked over his -- he actually looked over _his own bloody shoulder._ As if Crowley could be talking about anyone but him. 

“You…” the man said confusedly. “You seem to be surprisingly talkative for someone who was unconscious a moment ago.”

“Ah, yesss, well you see,” Crowley said, propping himself up on his elbows. “Wasn’t actually unconscious.”

“You most certainly were!” the man said, looking adorably petulant. “You closed your eyes!”

Crowley waved vaguely. “Sun came out.” He bit his lip. “Kissing was nice, though. More than happy to get back to that.”

“Kissing,” the man spluttered. “That was-- that was life saving medical treatment!” 

Crowley grinned, and the man deflated and flushed.

“Or that was what I believed it to be, at least,” he said primly.

“Well, then. _Thank you_ ,” Crowley said ostentatiously. His grin widened. 

There was a moment of silence. Crowley wasn’t generally the type to feel awkward, but the other man certainly seemed to be. He also, regrettably, seemed to have realised just how close they still were, and with a sharp inhale and half-formed apology, rose to his feet. He fussed with his clothing for a moment, brushing off his trousers, face forming a moue of displeasure at his muddy knees, before his eyes slid bashfully to Crowley again, and he held out a hand.

Bemused, Crowley took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. 

“Aren’t you cold, er…?

“Crowley,” Crowley offered.

“Just Crowley? Really?”

“Were you planning on a background check?” Crowley asked.

The man looked delightfully indignant, but something in his eyes told Crowley he’d taken the joke for what it was. “That depends on whether you’re planning to follow me home,” he replied archly.

Oh, Crowley was in love.

“Anthony Crowley,” he admitted. “But I prefer just Crowley.

“Just Crowley it is,” the man said, with a small smile that still somehow felt like the sun on Crowley’s skin. “And I’m Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated. Aziraphale. _Ah-zi-rah-phale_. The name was as soft and lovely as the rest of him. 

“Yes. Now, Crowley, perhaps you can tell me what in God’s name you were--” He stopped suddenly with a gasp, covering his mouth with both hands. “Oh _no!”_

“What? What is it?” 

Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately. He spun away from Crowley, digging frantically in his pockets.

“My masks! Oh God, oh where are they?”

“Hey,” Crowley said, trying to reach out a reassuring hand. “It’s fine, we’re outsi--”

“It’s not fine!” Aziraphale said, shaking him off and stepping away. “Oh _how_ could I be so stupid.”

Finally he pulled out not one, but two masks, both of them tartan, and slipped them quickly over his mouth and nose. Then he put even more distance between them -- well over the prescribed two metres -- before turning back to face Crowley with huge, stricken eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I’m an idiot of the first order.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked. He was wet all up his back from sweat and lying on the ground, and the cold was finally starting to penetrate. He suppressed a shiver.

Aziraphale looked wretched. “I’ve been exposed to the coronavirus,” he explained. “That’s why I’m staying here, to isolate while I await my test results. And now I’ve exposed you, too.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Damn.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to isolate now, too. After I, well.”

“Gave me the snog of life?”

“Quite,” he said faintly. “Where do you live? Perhaps I can drive you directly there. If you, um…”

 _If you don’t want to murder me with your bare hands_ , he seemed to be implying, which was a bit much. But…

If there was a single way to describe how Crowley passed through the world, it would be something like this: he’d never met a pair of loose shoelaces he could resist tying together; a low-hanging apple he could resist scrumping; an internet troll he could resist provoking. He would poke the hornet’s nest just to see what would happen, and cackle gleefully while he did it. Even after four and a half decades on this earth, he couldn’t quite seem to help himself. 

“Actually, I’m staying at a B&B,” he lied.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “You can’t isolate in a B&B.”

“You can’t isolate in a B&B,” Crowley agreed solemnly.

“Then you’ll just have to come back with me.”

“You _what_?”

“You’ll have to come and isolate with me. At my cottage.”

The thing about messing with people was, sometimes they genuinely surprised you.

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Crowley hedged, a tendril of conscience creeping in.

“I insist! This is all my fault, after all, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go out into the world, spreading the virus hither and yon.”

“ _Hither and yon_ ,” Crowley mouthed, entranced. “Are you sure?” he repeated. “We only just--” he gestured vaguely. “And you don’t even know if you’re positive.”

“My dear, I am adamant.”

Crowley stared. And then he shrugged. Who was he to brush off this kind of chaotic energy? Sometimes you kicked over a rotting log and instead of worms, found a Saxon hoard.

“Okay, then.” He snorted in amusement. “Looks like I’m going to follow you home after all.” 

Crowley needed a few minutes to pull up his rope, shimmy out of his harnesses, and get everything stashed away in his kit bag. He swapped his climbing shoes for an old pair of trainers, fished out his sunglasses, and shrugged into a lightweight jacket, but when he turned back to Aziraphale, ready to go, the other man was giving him a concerned look.

“That’s all you have to wear?” he asked.

“Wasn’t exactly expecting to be standing around gabbing once I reached the top,” Crowley explained.

“You’ll freeze,” Aziraphale said. “It’s a bit of a walk.” He looked indecisive for a moment, then muttered, “Oh I don’t suppose it matters any longer,” and came to stand directly in front of Crowley. “Here, take this,” he said, pulling his scarf off -- tartan again -- and holding it out for Crowley.

Crowley stared at it dumbly. He was just going to give it away?

“Oh really. Staying in a stranger’s house is all hunky-dory, but accepting his scarf is too much for you?” Aziraphale tutted, and looped the scarf around Crowley’s neck himself.

Crowley’d been wrong before. _Now_ he was in love.

* * *

Aziraphale felt terrible. Was this karma for his less than generous thoughts about Gabriel earlier? An object lesson in how he was really no better? How appropriate that the site of his hubris had been by the sea, just like poor Icarus, only far less grand. Let he who has not sinned cast the first aspersion.

Well at any rate, he'd gone and got some other innocent soul involved now, and _unlike_ Gabriel, Aziraphale would do his level best to make things right. Or as right as they could be. Even if it meant caring for the fellow if he were to fall ill. Provided Aziraphale wasn’t incapacitated himself, of course. Oh, what a mess.

Crowley was walking in front of him, leading the way back along the trail to the cottage even though he’d never been there before. Well, there was only one trail, so it hardly took a map and compass to work things out, but Aziraphale couldn’t keep from examining the easy confidence of his gait, a sort of loose, long-limbed sway of a walk that nevertheless covered the ground quickly. He had dark red hair tied up in a bun on the back of his head, and was dressed all in black, and Aziraphale worried about how he was going to coexist with someone so… so _cool_ for the next week and a bit.

Then again, he’d met the occasional rock-climber before, down at the village pub. His experience of them tended to be that they weren't suitable to pursue romantically due to always being already in love -- with themselves. Not that he was intending to pursue Crowley! Romantically or otherwise! Just that he seemed, on first acquaintance, rather a lot more pleasant than Aziraphale had any right to hope for, after what he’d done.

Well, the least he could do was try to put the man at his ease, and if there was one thing Aziraphale excelled at, it was small talk. Thus, he sallied forth.

“You’re not from around here, then? What brought you to the coast?”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale over his shoulder, his eyebrows doing something expressive above his sunglasses, and shook the rucksack he had slung over his shoulder so that his rock-climbing gear jingled. “Came to work on my tan,” he said, with the kind of grin that Aziraphale believed to be known, in the vernacular, as shit-eating.

“Yes, all right,” he conceded, “that one was a little obvious. But I can’t say I’ve come across a lot of rock-climbers out and about in the heart of winter. Is that a specialty of yours?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not actually that cold today, just blustery.”

“Yes, but it’s the middle of the work week,” Aziraphale said pointedly (if there was the slightest hint of an accusation in his tone, well, he could hardly be blamed). “And in the middle of a pandemic. You have to admit there’s rather a confluence of factors there.”

“Ah, but there’s a flaw in your argument, angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale blinked at the endearment. So that was going to stick, then. He’d think about that later. “Because I don’t have a job. Got given the boot back in April.”

Aziraphale softened immediately. “Oh my dear, how presumptuous of me. I’m sorry.”

“No need to look like that,” Crowley said easily. “More time to pursue my hobbies. Besides, I absolutely deserved it.”

Aziraphale hummed in inquiry. “That does sound like a story.”

“Take me to dinner first,” Crowley said, flashing his teeth, and a laugh bubbled out of Aziraphale.

“I’m afraid you won’t like my cooking.”

“As long as there’s dessert.”

“Would you settle for a good bottle of wine?”

“Deal.”

Aziraphale smiled in satisfaction, giving his shoulders a little self-congratulatory roll. Things may have started badly, but there was no reason they had to remain so. 

“Ah, here we are,” he said a few minutes later when they finally reached the kitchen door. Crowley had stopped in the garden to poke at a couple of dead plants, and something about the movement of his hands, deft and long-fingered, spoke to Aziraphale of expertise. He would have to ask him later; he did so love to listen to people talk about their interests. He unlocked the door and gestured Crowley ahead of him. “After you.”

And it was only then, as his guest stepped across the threshold, that Aziraphale remembered a rather vital piece of information, which was that this tiny little jewel of a house that his grandmother had bequeathed him, for all its storied charm and snug coziness -- this cottage, his home -- had only one bed.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with British homes, yes the washing machines are often in the kitchen. Thanks again to Summer for the once-over.

**Chapter 3**

The cottage smelled good. Crowley couldn’t put his finger on it exactly -- not bread baking in the oven, or fresh laundry, or anything else so obvious. Just, good. Nice. And that was fortunate, because the cottage itself was all higgledy-piggledy lines and charming clutter, the exact opposite of his own taste, as laid out in his spacious Mayfair flat. It wasn’t bad, per se, but his fingers were itching for a duster. 

It definitely suited Aziraphale, though -- a sort of musty coziness that lined up with the tartan and the bow-tie that had been revealed once he gave his scarf to Crowley. Aziraphale, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing his hands and watching Crowley with a nervous sort of expectancy.

“Oh right, shoes,” Crowley muttered, kicking off his trainers into a little plastic tray by the door, but when he looked up again, Aziraphale’s expression hadn’t changed.

“Having regrets?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Ah, um, well,” Aziraphale said, with a trickle of brittle laughter. “You see, in all the excitement, I forgot a rather pertinent detail.”

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale grimaced, and then seemed to shake himself out of it. “No, it’s no matter, ignore me.” He gestured towards an adjoining door. “Please, let me show you where you can leave your things.”

Crowley followed him out of the kitchen and down a short hallway that ended in a living room. It was… yeah, cozy, that was definitely the word here. A fireplace, a squashy-looking sofa that might’ve fit three people as long as they were prepared to be extremely friendly, a coffee table, and the single biggest collection of books Crowley had ever seen outside of a library. So many books. There were built in bookshelves on either side of the chimney breast, groaning under the weight of books piled two or three deep. On the carpeted floor and on the coffee table and on one half of the sofa, more books teetered in precarious piles. The windows were cut deep, straight through the stone walls, and on the sills, more books. 

“You like to read, then,” Crowley said, the understatement of the year, but Aziraphale had already moved on. 

On the other side of the hallway from the living room was an antique-looking paneled wood door, through which Crowley could see a bedroom. Aziraphale was waiting for him inside when he stepped through. 

“This will be your room,” Aziraphale said. “Please make yourself at home.”

Crowley looked around, one eyebrow raised. The bedroom was exactly like the kitchen and living room, except somehow _more_. The bed was large and piled with cushions and comforters, bedside table stacked with more books, splashes of tartan everywhere from the dressing gown hanging on the door to the blanket over the back of the leather wingback chair in the corner. Nothing about it said ‘guest room.’

“You don’t have a spare room,” he said with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Do you.”

“Well…” Aziraphale tilted his chin up, as though girding himself. “No. But I’m perfectly happy to take the settee.”

“What? No. Why would I let you do that?” The little seed of guilt from earlier started to germinate. Aziraphale was sweet-faced and soft-bodied, and though their brief conversation so far had hinted at an intriguing sharp streak, everything about him screamed comfort and softness. The idea of him curled up on a too-short sofa was unacceptable.

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. “The only reason you’re here is because of me. I’ve essentially trapped you here. The least I can do is make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Well I’m not,” Crowley said. “I’m not going to put you out like this.”

“It’s no trouble. I quite insist.”

“Well I quite _de_ sist _._ ”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Aziraphale said, anxiety poorly hidden with irritation.

“Not the point, angel,” Crowley pleaded. His voice had taken on a gentleness that was a surprise even to himself. “I can’t take your bed. Really. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

And Aziraphale must have seen something of his sincerity, because he backed off a little, posture softening. “Well,” he said. “I suppose It’s not for long. Perhaps we can alternate.” He held up a hand when Crowley opened his mouth to protest. “That really is my final offer.”

Crowley let his head fall back dramatically. “Fine! But I’m taking the sofa first.”

Aziraphale sighed, looking unhappy. “I suppose, if you must.”

“I must,” Crowley said. Aziraphale paused awkwardly, fiddling with a signet ring he wore on his little finger, smoothing down his -- Christ -- his waistcoat, eyes sliding away with a faint flush in his cheeks. Clearly Crowley was feeling uncharacteristically kind, because he only let it go on for a couple of seconds this time before asking, “Soooo -- bathroom?”

* * *

It was at the back of the cottage, the other side of the living room from the bedroom, and no doubt added on later once indoor plumbing became the done thing, which meant it was newer and bigger and all in all surprisingly luxurious, given the rest of the place. Crowley was impressed. 

There was a sort of ‘wet corner’ on one side, with a rainfall showerhead and floor that sloped gently to a drain, but no walls. Beside that was an absolutely decadent clawfoot tub. There were candles, shelves full of little knick-knacks and niceties, a heated towel rail, and an airing cupboard with a louvre door that Aziraphale had told him to avail himself of. Single vanity, he noticed (all signs pointed to single occupancy being the norm) and a mirror surrounded by fan-shaped tiles that gave it all a subtle art deco look. One of the tiles, directly centered over the mirror, had been hand-painted with a stylised sunrise -- a half-circle rising over the horizon, with rays fanning out from it in straight lines. He’d noticed the same design carved into the lintel over the fireplace. It looked familiar but he couldn’t immediately place it.

Shucking off his cold, wet, dirty clothes was a pleasure hitherto unknown to man, almost immediately surpassed by stepping under the hot spray of the shower. As his chilled skin acclimatised, he gradually turned the temperature higher until the room was steamy and his skin was pink. Finally warm and half-way to clean, Crowley then spent an enjoyable few minutes riffling through the shower caddy, unscrewing lids and sniffing the contents before finally settling on an elderflower shower gel with low notes of spice, and some salon-approved shampoo and conditioner ( _for men!_ the label insisted, should anyone’s gonads be in danger of shrinking) that promised to give his curls definition. Crowley’s hair fell half-way down his back and was naturally wavy, but given that the products’ owner’s hair was more fluff than curl, he didn’t expect it to do more than rinse away the sweat of his climb.

He stayed in there long enough for the water to start to cool off again, and it occurred to him that he ought to leave enough for his host, should he have his own plans for an evening wash-up, and it was only then, as he turned the water off and stepped over to the heated towel rail, that he realised he had no clean clothes to wear.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, poking the sad pile of climbing clothes with his toe. They were just as cold, wet and dirty as they had been earlier. So that was a no, then. Time for plan B.

* * *

While Crowley showered, Aziraphale busied himself pulling out spare bedding and pillows and whatnot, and getting the fire laid. He’d made a brief attempt at tidying, but all it had meant in reality was moving various piles of books from one spot to another, and he’d quickly given it up as a bad job. (It had, however, unearthed a rather sickly looking spider plant on the window sill, which he had proceeded to over-water in a fit of guilt.) Once all that was done, he dithered a little, listening distractedly to the sound of the water running in the bathroom, before moving to the kitchen and attempting to find something for dinner in the fridge. He was a terrible cook, but surely even he could manage to heat up some fresh pasta and add the sauce without disaster striking. 

He had just got it on the hob when he heard Crowley come in behind him.

“I thought you’d probably be hungry,” Aziraphale said, poking warily at the contents of the pan with a wooden spoon. “So I’m making enough for two.”

“Er, yeah, thanks,” Crowley said, sounding a bit distracted. Aziraphale turned around in curiosity, and nearly dropped the wooden spoon.

“Oh, good lord.”

Crowley was… he was… _skin_ and… oh no, oh dear. Crowley was standing in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but a towel slung so low around his hips that Aziraphale could see the crests of his hipbones peaking out above. Between them, a trail of dark auburn hair ran from his belly button to beneath the edge of the towel, and above all that, a long torso, slender musculature, a nice amount of chest hair that spread across well-defined pectorals, collarbones that frankly made his mouth water, and--

He started at a violent _tss_ from the hob, and red-faced, turned back to the saucepan to find it boiling over. 

“I only looked away for two seconds!” he muttered in recrimination, trying not to fumble as he lifted it from the heat.

“Yeah, so listen,” Crowley said. “I don’t actually have a change of clothes, so if you could point me towards the washing machine…”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale clattered the pan in his haste to turn back to Crowley, sloshing boiling pasta-water across the hob. “I should have thought of that. Let me get you something to put on. You must be freezing again.”

“It’s fine, really,” Crowley said, but stuttered strangely to a halt as Aziraphale brushed past him on his way to the bedroom. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Here, take these.” And he handed over a set of fresh pyjamas, his warmest jumper, and a pair of thick, woolly socks. “Get changed and I’ll go and put your dirty things in the wash.”

“O-okay, thanks,” Crowley said haltingly, holding the bundle to his chest. Aziraphale risked one last glance at it (true art should be appreciated, after all) before flicking his eyes guiltily to Crowley’s face, and attempting a smile before bustling out. 

Back in the kitchen he shut the door and leaned against it, taking a number of measured breaths, before throwing Crowley’s clothes into the washing machine and busying himself with cleaning up the starchy mess he’d made of the hob. What a strange day this had been. A strange week. But perhaps… not entirely unpleasant, after all.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Crowley got dressed in Aziraphale’s bedroom, and tried very hard not to focus on the fact that this meant getting completely _naked_ in Aziraphale’s bedroom. Not that Crowley had been wearing much before, but he hadn’t really noticed it until Aziraphale had looked at him like _that_. 

He hadn’t been looked at like _that_ in a long time. Product of living by himself all these years, but if someone like Aziraphale was going to go round looking at him like _that_ he could certainly be convinced of the benefits of cohabitation. Chief among them the ego boost of being looked at like _that._

Crowley shook his head, realising he’d been staring into space as he replayed the heated and very unangelic once-over in his mind’s eye on repeat, and laid out the little pile of clothing Aziraphale had given him.

It was all horrendously cozy and probably very comfortable. Of course it was. The pyjamas were cotton, soft with wear, the top a plain navy blue t-shirt, the trousers sporting a very thin interlocking red stripe that could only be identified as tartan at very close range. Had they just happened to be on top of the pile, or had they been chosen specifically for him, with the dark colours and minimum fashion-blindness? It seemed unlikely that Aziraphale was observant enough to register this amount of information about Crowley in the hour or so since they’d met, and yet, there was a possibility, and it was kind of tantalising.

“Don’t get stupid on me now,” he muttered to himself out loud, but it was almost certainly too late for that, both in general and in this specific instance. There was only one way forward, anyway, unless he intended to prance around in his birthday suit. (He tried to picture Aziraphale’s face if he did, and suddenly felt quite warm.)

The jumper was a cream-coloured cable knit affair, boat-neck with buttons on the shoulder. It fit pretty well, if a little baggy in the body. Thinking about being looked at like _that_ again, Crowley unfastened the buttons so that it could slide off one of his shoulders. (Devilishly, he hadn’t put on the t-shirt underneath.)

His mind settled for a moment on what had happened after the look -- the brush of Aziraphale’s body as he passed Crowley by in the doorway. It’d been nothing, really, except that against his bare skin, it’d felt like a faint caress, the kind that could send his brain into hissing static.

Crowley didn’t really miss his clients, or socialising, or people in general, but it turned out he did miss being touched. Kind of inconvenient to find that out now. Something told him, though, that he might be able to spread that inconvenience around, and that -- that would be fun.

* * *

Aziraphale swore to himself that when Crowley reemerged, he would behave impeccably, and avoid any further objectification (or at least, he wouldn’t do it so obviously again. He was only human, and if the man _would_ walk around half-naked...) What that meant, was that he was forcing himself to look no lower than head-height when Crowley sauntered back in to the kitchen, allowing him to see what he had completely missed the first time -- Crowley’s long hair was loose and still damp, and curling itself into the most darling ringlets Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Oh, how pretty,” he said, before he could help himself. Crowley stopped half-way across the kitchen. It wasn’t a big kitchen, so this meant he stopped right in front of Aziraphale, one eyebrow raised, a faint, questioning smirk curling up one corner of his mouth. “I-- I-- I meant your hair! Not that you aren’t-- of course, you’re very-- um. Oh dear.”

“Huh,” Crowley said, examining a strand that had fallen over his shoulder. “Hasn’t done that since I was a kid. Must be your shampoo, angel.” 

Crowley using his toiletries, going around smelling like his favourite products, wearing his clothes and calling him angel... it was all very… a lot, and why was the kitchen so warm? The situation seemed to be sliding out of his control, and he wasn’t sure how it had happened. 

Smiling unconvincingly, Aziraphale turned back to the slab of cheddar he was grating into a bowl, and tried to surreptitiously swallow back his blushes.

“I’m afraid I may have lived up to my threats of being a poor chef,” he said inanely.

Crowley… failed to move further away. “You made food from scratch. I’m impressed.”

“Then I’m afraid your standards are far too low. And I didn’t make it, really.”

“Wuh yyy heated it up, whatever, it’s fresh and I’m not complaining.”

“You’re too kind,” Aziraphale said. He risked a glance over his shoulder just to check, and yes, Crowley was still very close. Close enough, in fact, to notice the little curling tattoo by his ear and the colour of his eyes, which were the warm hue of a glass of whiskey held up to the fire, quite remarkably lovely, and watching him in amusement as he stared for far too long. “Ah, um, yes,” Aziraphale said, hoisting himself back on track. “That should do it. Be a dear and get the wine glasses, would you?” He gestured with a nod of his head. “They’re in that cabinet over there.”

“Of course,” Crowley said. The words themselves were perfectly innocent, so why Aziraphale’s hands stumbled over their task was a mystery. Perhaps something to do with the puff of warm breath that had accompanied them, just barely close enough to be felt on the back of his neck. And then, Crowley’s hands were on his hips as he squeezed past Aziraphale to get to the cupboard, fleeting touch, light pressure, not anything really. With his back safely turned, Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed for a moment, and stifled the surprised jolt of pleasure at being touched after so long.

* * *

Crowley sat with his chin in his hand, feeling strangely light-headed, and not from the wine. The meal had been simple comfort food -- fresh ravioli, marinara sauce, a mountain of grated cheddar to sprinkle on top -- pretty nice compared to the junk Crowley usually ate, but nothing extraordinary. You wouldn’t have known it from Aziraphale’s expression. He looked somewhere between a pious young man in the grip of religious ecstasy, and a man experiencing rather a different grip and quite a different ecstasy. Crowley was enthralled. 

“Oh. Mmm. Oh, I say,” Aziraphale said, dabbing his mouth daintily with a piece of kitchen towel. “That was rather scrummy even if I do say so myself.”

“Mmyep. Scrummy.”

Crowley gripped the wine bottle like a life raft and topped them both up to distract himself.

“So how do you want to play this going forward?” he asked, once Aziraphale had finished smacking and mmm-ing and was instead sighing happily over the wine. Some of it seemed to go down the wrong way just then, though, as he coughed abruptly into his little Sainsbury’s Basics serviette.

“What, um, what do you mean?”

Crowley sat back, gesturing around him with his wine glass. “Can’t help noticing this place is pretty small. We're going to be on top of each other constantly. So d’you want to try and maintain some space and privacy, or do you want to, you know…”

Aziraphale took a rapid swallow of wine. “What?”

“Get to know each other.”

“Get… to _know_ each other…” Aziraphale repeated. “Do you have a preference?” he asked cautiously. Crowley shrugged, an expansive gesture that still somehow felt a little too revealing.

“It's your choice, angel. I don’t want to be any trouble.” True more in the existential sense, because in the very targeted and specific sense, Crowley loved nothing better than being troublesome.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said. He pursed his lips in consideration, cogs almost visibly turning. “You’re talking about breaking the ice,” he said eventually, pausing for Crowley to confirm with a nonplussed nod of his head. “Yes, all right, then. What did you have in mind?”

Crowley grinned and opened another bottle of wine.

* * *

It was called pennying. Aziraphale hadn’t played it since his college days, but oh, he’d been bad at it then and he wasn’t any better two-and-a-half decades later. He was having a great deal of fun.

“Whyever would I do that?” he said, quite well on the way to drunk by this point, but thankfully not yet slurring.

“‘S Oxford, angel. Everyone tries it at some point.”

“Well did you?”

“Didn’t _go_ to Oxford, did I?”

“Oh fine, did you try rowing at the _Fenland Polytechnic of East Anglia_?”

“Oi! University of Newton, Hawking, and Emma Thompson, Cambridge is. Show some bloody respect.”

“Answer the bloody question.”

Crowley sighed explosively. “Obviously I did. You can’t be over six foot and not be pressured into it at some point.”

“I knew it! What happened? Get attacked by a swan?”

“Not a morning perssss-- Oh you bastard!”

Crowley swung his wine glass up to the light, giving it a cockeyed look. Aziraphale couldn’t contain himself, smugness breaking into an enormous grin and rolling through his body in a little shimmy. 

“I got you while you were spluttering about Cambridge,” he said, delighted with himself.

Crowley lowered his glass and gave Aziraphale a strange look, oddly warm, before groaning dramatically as he fished the penny out from the bottom of his wine glass (Aziraphale pointedly didn’t stare as he sucked the wine from his fingers, not one jot). Then, as the game demanded, he drained it in one go (Aziraphale took the opportunity again to very much not stare at his long neck and the bob of his throat, no absolutely not). 

“Come on then,” Crowley said when he was done, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “And the rest.”

Aziraphale tapped his sadly unmanicured nails against the stem of his glass thoughtfully. Since there were only two of them, they’d agreed that after successfully slipping the penny into the other’s glass, they’d add a truth or dare aspect. “For fun,” Crowley had said, all teeth. So far, it had only been Aziraphale taking the forfeits (although Crowley had gamely kept pace with the consumption of booze). He should probably think carefully about what he really wanted to know about the man opposite.

“Why were you fired from your job?”

Or he could blurt out the first piece of nonsense that crossed his mind.

Crowley slapped a hand theatrically over his heart, the ridiculous creature. “Straight in with the painful ones. Where’s your mercy, angel?”

Aziraphale waved his hand dismissively. “You already said you deserved it. How bad could it be?”

“Bad, angel,” Crowley said, with an utterly wicked grin. “So bad. I’ll take the dare.”

“Oh! You-- _fiend._ Fine! Make me a cup of tea in the morning. English breakfast, don’t let it mash for too long, milk no sugar.”

Crowley’s grin softened inexplicably. “You want me to make you a brew?”

“In the morning, yes.” It became hard to maintain eye contact for some reason, and so Aziraphale reached forward to reclaim his penny. Seeing his intent, Crowley helpfully pushed it towards him and their hands collided, fingers briefly tangled, before sliding apart once more. Aziraphale’s breath hitched embarrassingly. He must be more drunk than he’d realised. When he looked back up, Crowley was still smiling at him.

“Would’ve done that anyway,” he said quietly. “‘M happy to help out. Only need to ask.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. It was all he could think to say, swept away momentarily by a sweet sensation. Crowley must be even more drunk than he was. “Oh, well, that’s very k--”

“ _Nope!_ ” Crowley said loudly, shattering the mood quite comprehensively as he held up one silencing finger. “Not kind! Not nice. Not any of those things. ‘M a nuisance and a grade-A pain in the arse.”

Aziraphale laughed until his stomach ached. “If you say so, my dear,” he said. Crowley shot him such a filthy look that he did his best to reign it in. But when he went to refill Crowley’s empty glass, his arm was still shaking with suppressed merriment.

Aziraphale loved people, and he hadn't met anyone new in almost a year now. Hadn’t had a face-to-face conversation with anyone except Gabriel in the same time period. Hadn’t been touched-- well, best not to dwell on that. But after his repeated inability to remain unflustered earlier in the evening, he’d tried not to appear too keen at Crowley’s suggestion of becoming -- dare he think it -- friends. He saw now he needn’t have worried. Their conversation this evening had been simply lovely, and it may have been nothing more than the influence of the wine, but a place in him that had long been empty was now filled with the wonderful giddy feeling of not wanting the night to be over.

“Well, then,” he said, topping himself up while he was at it. “If you won’t tell me about your career, then at least tell me about your interests. A Natural Sciences degree, was it? Did you favour some fields over the others?”

“Astrophysics and Plant Science,” Crowley said without missing a beat. 

“What an interesting combination,” Aziraphale observed, and so the night went on, giddily, and wonderfully, and warm.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to summerofspock for the once over. One of the most unexpected things about moving to America was finding out how weird Americans are about their tea. YEAH I SAID IT. So cw for shots fired ;)

**Chapter 5**

It was still dark when Crowley woke up the following morning (the same morning? What time had they gone to bed, anyway?) which was a crime against nature all by itself, but what was worse was that instead of the pleasant next-day ache from his climb, his body was locked in some kind of death rictus, a horrifying combination of hungover and _really fucking cold_.

Jesus _Christ_ he could see his breath, that’s how cold it was. The tip of his nose might as well have become an icicle. Groaning in misery, he tried to burrow deeper into the pile of blankets Aziraphale had left out for him, only to realise that somehow most of them had ended up tangled around his feet. He’d been too warm when he’d gone to bed. He remembered that. What in Satan’s frigid arse crack had happened in the meantime?

Wincing, teeth _literally chattering_ , he flailed around for a bit trying to straighten everything up. Then he curled back up in a slightly better-insulated ball, wishing for death and regretting every decision he’d ever made, from not taking the bed, to leaving the pyjama t-shirt off, to lying to Aziraphale about the B&B in the first place. Fully prepared to come clean and high tail it out of there just as soon as he’d thawed out enough to go in search of his clothes, Crowley hugged his knees to his chest and tried to think warm thoughts.

Aziraphale was warm. Yes he was kind and apparently generous and all that, but he was also physically warm. Spooning with him would be like slipping on a big, soft dressing gown that’d been left draped over the radiator. Probably. He was absolutely thinking about it, at least, and it was a very warming thought. Crowley shivered again. This was torture. Obviously the universe had to balance itself out, after last night. Couldn’t just let him _have_ something like that. The way Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled when he laughed, the flush of his cheeks, the thrill of brushing fingers, the intense pleasure of enjoying a conversation…

Crowley got so lost in thoughts like those that he didn’t realise he’d stopped shivering until the sound of the shower cut off. He hadn’t even noticed it had been on. Christ’s fucking balls on a barbecue skewer, Aziraphale was a morning person, wasn’t he?

The supposition was immediately confirmed by the obnoxious humming he could now hear coming from the bathroom. Oh God, oh fuck, he was _not_ smiling.

He continued to not-smile as he listened to the achingly domestic sounds of Aziraphale getting ready for the day, at once foreign and familiar. When the bathroom door creaked, admitting one angel to the far side of the living room, Crowley made the excellent life choice to promptly shut his eyes and pretend to still be asleep. Excellent for two main reasons.

One, and not to put too fine a point on it -- Aziraphale telegraphed his sexuality with every atom of his being. He radiated gayness like a big chunk of gay uranium. But if Crowley had been in any doubt, the towel turban would've settled it.

Two -- he wasn’t yet dressed, and had tucked his towel up under his armpits, presumably to save any peeping Toms (or Crowleys) from the sight of a stray nipple, but the towels weren’t especially generous in proportion (whereas Aziraphale _was_ ) and as he walked by the sofa Crowley caught a glimpse of the rounded lower curve of the angel’s rump. 

He suddenly felt a lot warmer.

Maybe he’d stay, after all.

* * *

Aziraphale was tying his bowtie when the familiar _click_ informed him that the blasted thermostat had finally turned the central heating on. That meant it was 7:31am precisely, rather early given the hour he and Crowley had finally parted ways last night, but he’d never needed much sleep, and he did love mornings so. Especially at this time of year, when he could watch the sun come up from the kitchen window, cup of tea in hand.

He smiled as he remembered his “dare” to Crowley from the night before. In all honesty he didn’t expect the poor fellow to be up and about yet, and he didn’t feel like waiting for him, just to be a pain in the neck about it, and so he crept out of the bedroom and tried to make it to the kitchen as quietly as possible. 

Crowley was already there. Rumpled and still in the sleep clothes Aziraphale had given him yesterday, but holding two mugs of steaming tea and giving him an expectant, almost challenging look, one eyebrow raised.

“Here you go, angel. Milk, no sugar, didn’t leave it to stew like an American.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, heart fluttering absurdly. It was only a cup of tea. Nevermind that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had made one for him. He took the mug from Crowley and leant back against the kitchen table while he cradled it, still a little too hot to drink. Crowley was opposite him, back to the window, and behind him the sky was beginning to lighten, long streams of clouds starting to turn the colour of his hair. And to think Aziraphale hadn’t believed the view could be improved upon.

Crowley was quiet, but not apparently uncomfortable under Aziraphale’s less-than-covert scrutiny. He blew idly into his own mug, one socked ankle crossed over the other, seemingly sunk into a hushed, wordless contentment. Aziraphale was charmed by how unexpectedly comfortable it all was. 

Before long, the sun rose above the horizon, as it was wont to do, casting Crowley’s face in silhouette and his hair in a slightly frizzy corona, and to keep any more inappropriate words like _pretty_ or _absolutely stunning_ from filling the air between them, Aziraphale forced himself to consider the things Crowley would need over the next few days. Aziraphale had already given him a spare toothbrush and razor, but his own hair wasn’t long enough to need a hairbrush, and as eye-catching as the curve of Crowley’s bare shoulder was in Aziraphale’s jumper, the dear fellow was going to need more than one change of clothes. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale started, but his voice came out hoarse and too quiet. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Perhaps after breakfast I can get you my laptop. Order you some supplies.”

Crowley eyed him over the rim of his mug before answering, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, barely there except for the lines it caused to deepen. “If you like.”

“I hate to suggest it, but maybe that hellsite would be best. So you can get things quickly.”

Crowley’s eyebrow went up again, and so Aziraphale clarified.

“The A-word, whose name we do not speak.”

Crowley’s smile deepend slightly. “Ah. You’re a conscientious objector.”

“Don’t get me started!” Aziraphale started. “It’s simply indefensible, the conditions in those warehouses. And the money he’s made off of all of our suffering!”

Crowley straightened up, looking more amused than anything. “Since you feel so strongly about it, maybe I _should_ look elsewhere.”

“Oh, well, no, I didn’t mean--”

Crowley waved a hand. “What’s a day or two extra of borrowed clothes between quarantine-mates?”

“I… suppose,” Aziraphale said, feeling wrong-footed but not entirely sure why.

“Maybe I could even… _shop local._ ”

Well that was uncalled for. “I get the impression that I’m being mocked,” he huffed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stood there smiling at each other until Aziraphale realised what an idiot he must look, and turned away, comforting himself with mindless bustle.

“Yes well anyway, what would you like for breakfast?” he asked, getting out plates, bowls, glasses. “There’s cereal in the cupboard, bread for toast, and I think I saw some crumpets somewhere.”

“Uuugh, no, I’m good thanks,” Crowley said

Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. “You don’t eat breakfast?”

“Sometimes I do, just-- not today.”

Aziraphale stared at him blankly for a moment, then almost laughed as realisation sunk in. “My dear, are you hungover?”

Crowley spluttered defensively. “I'm not used to drinking that much anymore!”

“Well now you're making me feel like a lush,” Aziraphale said, really laughing this time. Crowley looked so aggrieved, it was really rather adorable.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “A fish, maybe.”

“What was it you were saying about dolphins last night?” Aziraphale asked, reaching past Crowley for the little tupperware of first aid supplies he kept on the top shelf, and passing him the pack of paracetamol with a kind, “Here you go, my dear.”

* * *

Crowley went to the bathroom to sort himself out while Aziraphale had breakfast. He somehow managed to shave without causing himself grievous bodily harm, and afterwards, attemped to give his tangled hair a finger-comb, wondering idly how long he could get away without taking Aziraphale up on his offer. On the one hand, a brush and some product wouldn’t go amiss -- it’d been over a year since he’d had a haircut and it was getting out of control. On the other, he didn’t actually want to relinquish his borrowed clothes. Aziraphale hadn't looked at him again with the solid heat of _that_ look, but he had a full repertoire of expressions, and the lingering gazes he’d been bestowing on Crowley’s neck and shoulder, even his hands, more than made up for it.

And then there was the way Aziraphale had smiled at him when he’d handed over his cup of tea just now, like he’d given him something infinitely more precious than a mug of Twinings. The way he’d looked with the dawn light illuminating his face, golden and lovely. (The way Crowley had imagined, briefly, seeing his face just like that from across a pillow.)

Forget a hangover, Crowley was clearly still drunk.

Thing was… the thing _was_ … last night, the first time he'd pennied Aziraphale, Crowley had used his “truth” to ask him how he'd ended up exposed to the virus. The story he'd given about his boss, somehow it'd changed the dimensions of all this. Because Gabriel sounded like an _arsehole_ and Aziraphale was the complete opposite of that, and someone -- _someone!_ \-- needed to look after the angel because apparently everyone else had fallen short. 

He brushed his teeth, and showered, and when he got out again the heated towel rail was actually hot, so the heating seemed to have finally kicked in, thank all that was unholy. His clothes, when he pulled them out of the airing cupboard, were deliciously warm, bringing to mind his earlier thoughts of Aziraphale and dressing gowns and… being embraced… And yeah, had to be at least a little bit drunk still because this was not normal behaviour, even for him. He just wasn’t used to being around people -- a person -- a very particularly attractive person -- anymore. Probably no one was. Probably, when this whole pandemic crap was over, everyone would be acting exactly the same way, starstruck and reeling and… clingy. He couldn’t remember ever _wanting_ to be clingy. It wasn’t, he tended to think, a good or even neutral quality of his. And yet here he was, fantasising about clinging.

It was something about the combination of a bowtie and waistcoat with that snuggly-looking cardigan Aziraphale wore about the house. Buttoned-up-and-demure, coupled with soft-and-inviting. It was definitely doing things to Crowley. And Aziraphale hadn’t objected to any of his little touches last night. Hadn’t initiated any himself, but hadn’t drawn away, or looked uncomfortable -- Crowley, drunk as he’d gotten, had been paying attention. So… maybe let go of the whole inconvenience thing, and instead do it because… he wanted to… and see if that took him anywhere interesting.

* * *

The day passed relatively quietly. Aziraphale offered Crowley books to read, and the use of his laptop, but the other man mostly seemed content to lounge about on the sofa in various configurations of limbs, tapping away at his phone. Which should have made things easy, but underneath the surface, Aziraphale was humming with anxiety. Crowley didn’t seem to want Aziraphale to provide him with entertainment, and every time Aziraphale offered to make him something -- a drink, lunch -- Crowley waved him off and went and did it himself. Aziraphale didn’t understand how he was supposed to make this up to Crowley if Crowley wouldn’t let him.

Then there was the other thing, the-- the touching. It was sort of like a game, and as with the pennies, Aziraphale wasn’t very good at it, but as with the pennies, he was enjoying himself quite a bit more than he probably should. The way it seemed to work was that Crowley would take an ordinary action, such as passing him something, or walking past him, and use it to touch Aziraphale. No in an intrusive way, no -- it was actually rather pleasant -- light brushes of body against body, lingering enough not to be mistaken for accidental, and after each, Aziraphale would shyly raise his eyes and smile almost involuntarily at Crowley, who always gave him that barely-there, line-deepening smile in return.

Finally, he decided, if Crowley wasn’t going to let Aziraphale look after him, maybe he would like it if Aziraphale joined in on his game instead. It was mid-afternoon and starting to get dark when Crowley stood from the couch and stretched.

Aziraphale, who had been sitting at the kitchen table with his book and a pot of tea, took the opportunity to call out to him, “Oh, Crowley, I wonder if I could borrow you for a moment.”

“What is it?” Crowley asked, sauntering in. 

“Nothing really,” Aziraphale said, “just that I was wondering if you could get the, ah, the butter dish down for me. It’s up on the top shelf, I can’t reach it,” he hurried to add.

Crowley gave him an exaggeratedly sympathetic pout, and saying nothing of the fact that Aziraphale was perfectly capable of standing on a chair, reached up and retrieved it. He was wearing the soft black climbing gear, of course, the only clothing of his own that he had -- a long-sleeved black t-shirt and some kind of trousers that were just loose enough to be tantalising. They sat low on Crowley’s hips, and when he reached overhead to fetch the butter dish in question, his t-shirt rode up to reveal the base of his spine, two dimples either side, and Aziraphale wet his dry lips before hurriedly pulling his eyes away.

Crowley turned back, butter dish in hand, and presented it to Aziraphale. “This meet your butter needs, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale was almost certain his face was flushed, warm as it was, but he steeled himself to follow through. Reaching out to take the dish, he very deliberately cupped Crowley’s hand in both of his, meeting his eyes, before slowly letting him slide away.

To his very great surprise, when he looked up again, Crowley was also somewhat pink about the face, and instead of his usual easy drape, was standing awkwardly, all shoulders and angles, mouth slightly parted and staring intently at Aziraphale’s hands.

Then he jolted, seemed to notice Aziraphale was watching him, made an inarticulate noise, and disappeared back into the living room.

Gosh. Aziraphale was starting to see the appeal of this game.

And now, he supposed, he’d better get some butter out.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for homophobia, body shaming, depiction of covid symptoms, and Gabriel. Thanks to summerofspock for the eagle-eyes.

**Chapter 6**

As the evening set in, Aziraphale went out to refill the coal scuttle and bring in some more logs to top up the big basket he kept on one side of hearth, and went about building a fire. It popped and sizzled as he coaxed it into life, little orange flames starting to lick up between the kindling. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels for a moment to watch it take, the flicker of the flame sending him into an almost meditative state for a little while. The thing was a bugger to keep clean, but he’d long ago decided the inconvenience was worth it for the sheer sensual pleasure that was an open fire. The crackle of the burning wood, the burnishing light it cast, even the scent of woodsmoke, all wonderful and homely, and not least of all, the warmth it provided. The cottage was too small for an Aga, the ultimate dream, but it did get delightfully cosy when the fire was burning away.

Sleeves rolled up, coal dust on his hands, Aziraphale was careful not to touch anything on his way back to the kitchen to get cleaned up. He felt the weight of Crowley’s eyes following him from his spot on the couch all the way out. Really, he wasn’t that interesting. Crowley must be quite bored to watch him so.

Earlier, they had moved the big leather wingback from the bedroom out to the living room. It was a bit of a squeeze and had required relocating quite a number of books, but it was certainly nice to be able to share the living space with his guest, especially now the fire was going. 

A pleasant while passed. Aziraphale stretched his feet out towards the fireguard, letting the metal of the mesh screen warm his toes, and sank back into his book. The protagonists were busy making eyes at each other, gliding ever closer to a first encounter that promised to be quite the thing, when Aziraphale’s phone went off so suddenly he almost jumped out of his chair with a yelp that first caused Crowley to scissor up from his sprawl, and shortly after left him laughing riotously at Aziraphale’s expense. (He had dimples, Aziraphale noted in between frantic lunges around the chair’s cushion, trying to retrieve the infernal squawking device. Crowley had dimples when he laughed like that. What a tremendous discovery.)

It was Gabriel. Aziraphale frowned at his watch as he answered the call. It was almost 6pm -- rather uncivilised, even for him. 

“Gabriel,” he said, forcing a smile. “What an unexpected pleasure.” Hadn’t he said just yesterday Aziraphale would be on his own for a while?

Across from him, Aziraphale could practically see Crowley’s ears perking up, but he didn’t bother moving to a different room. The cottage was so small, what would be the point?

“Azira-ah-ah…” Gabriel’s hoarse voice disintegrated into uncontrollable wheezing. Aziraphale tried to dredge up some of yesterday’s sympathy.

“Juice cleanse going well?” he tried. Oh dear, that had come out rather more catty than he’d intended. He could almost _feel_ Crowley’s delight, the fiend.

“Yeah, no,” Gabriel said, when he’d finally got himself under control again. “Couldn’t taste a thing, can you believe that? Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book and send them a strongly worded email.” He started laughing to himself, and quickly devolved into more gasping coughs. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he tried once Gabriel was, again, not actively spluttering up a lung.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ve moved on to collagen supplements. They’ve got science in them. Way more effective.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. “I meant,” he said as politely as he could manage. “Why are you calling? It’s almost dinner time.”

“Is it? Must’ve lost track. Well I won’t keep you long, wouldn’t want you to eat too late -- you know they say after a certain time of night all those calories go straight to your--”

“Ah yes, that science again.”

“I know! Fascinating stuff! Anyway, that young fellow in your department, the feckless one, looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over--”

“Newt?”

“Right, Newt. Well _somehow_ he’s managed to hook a pair of donors who are--” he whistled, or at least, he tried to. The wheezing went on for some time. “They’re really wealthy. I want you to woo them.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, not really seeing. Yes, he was the head of the fundraising department, but if this was Newt’s get…

“You’re perfect for this account, because they’re a pair of--” he lowered his voice as though saying a naughty word, “lesbians. And you’re, well--” he trailed off in place of even whispering the word _gay_. 

“I see,” Aziraphale said again, rather more coolly. Of course Gabriel didn’t notice.

“Great! Knew I could count on you. I’ll have Sandalphon send you the details.”

And without even a good-bye, let alone an inquiry into Aziraphale’s health, he hung up.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said lamely to his blank phone screen. 

Crowley gave him a whole five seconds before jumping in with, “So that was Gabriel.”

“It was,” Aziraphale confirmed.

Crowley gazed thoughtfully at the fire for a few more seconds, as though spinning through his mental Rolodex of possible responses. But when he did speak, what he said was, “Wine?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale said.

* * *

“So you do have a job after all,” Crowley finally mused, half an hour and almost two glasses of wine later. “Was starting to wonder.”

“I was _trying_ to-- oh, what’s that delightful American expression? Play ‘hooky.’”

“Hooky.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale subsided. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to have noticed.”

Crowley gave him a sympathetic expression and topped him up.

“I suppose things have been rather quiet, with all this going on,” Aziraphale continued, twirling his finger around in an entirely inadequate attempt to encompass the ghastly state of the world for the last ten months. “People are donating to charities less, conserving their resources. Understandably. It was lucky, really -- we received an extremely generous donation back in, oh, April? It helped keep the junior fundraising team off the streets during the worst of it. And Gabriel’s nose out of my department, of course.”

“Funny that,” Crowley said with a scowl. “April’s when I got my, ehh, alternative career enhancement.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale spluttered, trying not to laugh. “Did they really call it that? To your face?”

“Yep,” Crowley said.

“Well, I suppose you did say you were happy to be shot of it.”

Crowley’s eyebrows quirked up. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

“No? I rather thought it was implied, what with all that talk of pursuing your hobbies.” He’d meant it to come out lightly, maybe even teasingly, but instead he sounded more than a touch defensive and guilty, even to his own ears. “Of course I didn’t mean, ah, you know best, I simply--”

Crowley’s hand coming to rest over Aziraphale’s bunched knuckles brought him back from his nervous stumbling. Long, cool fingers, light touch. Aziraphale’s breath shuddered silently in his chest.

“Just having you on, angel,” Crowley said gently, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I am, actually, extremely happy to’ve had my career reassigned. Possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, foolishly.

“Wouldn’t have been down here, otherwise,” Crowley said, with a small shrug. Aziraphale almost downed his glass in one go. Crowley’s grin widened. Aziraphale saw his dimples.

* * *

Later, after dinner, Aziraphale sat by himself in the living room, mug of cocoa balanced on his knee, happily absorbed in his book once more. It wasn’t that late, even by Aziraphale’s standards, but Crowley had gone to the bathroom to get ready for bed, and after the night before, Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t blame him for wanting to turn in early. It was Crowley’s turn to use the bed tonight, and so, assuming he would go straight there, Aziraphale had made himself comfortable at his favourite end of the settee. 

It really was very small. He felt another twinge of guilt for having made Crowley, who had at least a couple of inches on him in height, fold himself up to sleep on it last night. But the man had insisted, and Aziraphale hated confrontation even more than he hated putting his guest out like that. And yet Crowley continued to elude his efforts to make it up to him. Really, anyone else would probably be holding it over him in this situation, and he would not blame them one iota. But Crowley seemed oddly resistant to blame him for, well, for anything at all. And so here they were, a mildly anxious stalemate and a joint fumbling over dinner prep as their elbows knocked against each other more than was strictly necessary.

(Crowley had cut himself on the paring knife, trying to chop the leeks. Aziraphale had categorically _not_ watched avidly as he’d slid it into his mouth to suck the blood away.)

All of which was to say that when Crowley ambled back through the living room from the bathroom, Aziraphale did not expect him to drop down onto the sofa right next to him.

“Let me,” Aziraphale said politely, starting to stand.

“Nah, stay,” Crowley said, already absorbed in his phone. “‘S plenty of room.”

And then he curled himself up into his end of the sofa in such a way that his socked feet nudged quite noticeably against Aziraphale’s thigh. Really, there was no brushing this one off. Plausible deniability had flown out of the window. Crowley was very obviously, very unconcernedly resting his feet against Aziraphale’s leg.

Aziraphale remembered to breathe.

Eventually, he became aware that even through the socks Crowley’s feet were freezing. He should probably get up and make him a hot water bottle, offer him some tea or cocoa. Instead, Aziraphale made a show of rearranging himself, and in so doing, let Crowley’s toes slip beneath his thigh.

After another minute or so, Aziraphale glanced surreptitiously to the side. Crowley looked relaxed, comfortable, wearing the cotton pyjama trousers Aziraphale had picked out for him, the jumper sliding from his shoulder. He had tied up half his hair, pulling it back from his face in a way that revealed the line of his jaw, the delicate sculpting of his ear, yet still allowed the length to cascade forward over his shoulders. In the firelight, he looked like a Pre-Raphaelite muse.

Aziraphale remembered to breathe.

Where Crowley’s leg was bent, the hem of his borrowed trousers gaped open, showing a stretch of skin above his socks. Aziraphale resisted the urge (unexpected and strong as an undertow) to reach out and slide his hand beneath that hem, wrap his hand around calf and shin. Oh, to touch skin! How simple and divine. And how very out of bounds. His heart beat wildly.

Aziraphale remembered to breathe.

* * *

Crowley lay in Aziraphale’s bed, with his head on a pillow that smelled like Aziraphale, laying on a mattress that was shaped to Aziraphale’s body, thinking about the glimpse he’d had of that body this morning (thighs! _Thighs!)_ and sporting an erection that was very much Aziraphale’s fault.

“Listen,” he whispered heatedly to himself. “This is pathetic. It was just a couple of hours on the couch. No clothes were removed. Just-- _calm down_.”

Of course, that only led to him thinking about a couple of hours on the couch in which clothes _were_ removed, and that really, really didn’t help matters. What he wanted, what he actually probably needed, was a good, long wank. Wallow in these fantasies for a bit, get it out of his system, relieve the physical tension. But he hadn’t thought to bring a box of tissues in with him, he couldn’t get to the bathroom without going past Aziraphale, and he didn’t know how he could explain needing to wash his borrowed clothes so soon (or worse, the sheets).

He turned his face into the pillow and groaned quietly. “Shit shit shit shit shit _shit.”_

He’d gone from gleeful nuisance to… to something far warmer and much more dangerous. Because it wasn’t just his dick that was acting so stupidly optimistic. He thought of Aziraphale, snuggled up and rosy-cheeked by the fire, and his heart swelled out to his fingertips. 

He was well and truly fucked. And worse, he wasn’t sure that he cared.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Summer for poking at my awkward sentences. This chapter contains explicit content! I was not expecting it to! Their thirst transcends my outline!

**Chapter 7**

Aziraphale lay awake far later than was usual, curled up on the sofa, staring into the fire. He felt generous and warm, repeatedly thinking of Crowley and smiling -- ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. For a fan of romance, such as himself, his life had held disappointingly few opportunities to experience it first hand. Oh he had friends, oodles of them, who he loved very much, and he had always enjoyed and been happy to pursue uncomplicated sexual encounters when the desire arose. But his relationships had always been somehow lacklustre. No _connection_ , that was the kicker; not much in the way of passion, not even a dramatic heartbreak to speak of. He knew he was to blame, of course -- he wanted too much. He was picky and fussy and spent too long with his books and not enough time in the real world. More than one partner had said as much, as things fizzled out between them, and now on the far side of 45, Aziraphale had started to wonder if he was destined to grow old alone. He’d been trying to be content with what he had, muster up some of his energy to throw at that other project he’d been putting off for a while now. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want those things.

And now here was Crowley, with his hundred different smiles and frowns, and his dramatics, and they _barely knew each other_ which he had to keep reminding himself because it somehow didn’t seem like it, and all he had to do to send Aziraphale’s heart fluttering was make eye contact.

Aziraphale hugged a pillow to his chest, hoping, absurdly, to fall asleep quickly, so that he could see Crowley again all the sooner.

* * *

And woke up in the dark of the early morning, one arm outside of the blankets, cold enough it might have iced over while he was dallying with unconsciousness.

“Good _heavens_ ,” he muttered, pulling the frozen limb under the blankets with the rest of him. Obviously he knew it got cold at night, what with the thermostat’s insistence on turning the central heating off at 9:34pm, but he’d felt perfectly comfortable when he’d finally fallen asleep -- If he’d realised the temperature would plummet like this he wouldn’t have let the fire die down.

He thought yearningly of his bed for a moment, but no, Crowley was using it and Aziraphale wouldn’t begrudge him that. Crowley, whose feet got cold even with Aziraphale’s thickest woolly socks on. 

“Oh _no_ ,” he whispered, horrified. The poor fellow must have been frozen out here. Had he been able to sleep even a wink? Aziraphale’s gut twisted as he plumbed the full depths of his terrible hosting faux pas. What should he _do?_

Well, Crowley was hopefully getting a good night’s sleep somewhere a touch warmer right now, and so all Aziraphale could do for the time being was get up and lay the fire again. And then, perhaps, an apology was in order, of the form Crowley might actually accept.

* * *

Crowley awoke slowly, after several failed attempts, to the quiet sounds of someone else in the house. Aziraphale. He smiled. And then he woke up a little more, and groaned. It had taken for-fucking-ever for his wayward stiffy to give it up last night, and now he’d woken up in exactly the same state. Bloody morning wood. Like he was a twenty-something with such mythical attributes as a libido. 

Right. Well. Enough of this. He launched himself out of bed like he was preparing for a fight, grabbed his towel, held it strategically in front of him, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

* * *

Accompanied by a pot of tea, Aziraphale was poring over his recipe books in the kitchen when Crowley eventually surfaced, some time around 10am. Unfortunately, not a single one of his many, many books had instructions for a fry up. Apparently, the traditional English breakfast was something one was expected to simply _know_ how to do, and seeing as Aziraphale had grown up with staff to do that sort of thing for him, he was sadly lacking in such sacred knowledge. He was just considering, with great reluctance, whether he might consult the Wild West that was internet cookery blogs, when he heard the shower turning on, and realised if he was going to make the attempt, he had better get started.

* * *

“Hnnnggg,” Crowley whined, biting his lip. He was doing his best to stay quiet, but Satan’s balls it was good. It’d been too long since he’d made the effort to get himself off (and even longer since there’d been anyone to do it for him) but there hadn’t been anyone he’d wanted to get off _to_ , and the older he got, the more important the, uh, mental reel had become. Crowley had a fantastic imagination, but he needed a subject, and Aziraphale was, he was, oh _god_ he was so unbelievably beautiful, with his soft smiles and hidden sharpness, and the laughter lines beside his eyes that Crowley wanted to press his lips to. He imagined loosening that bowtie, revealing the dip of his throat, the line of his collarbones, burying his nose there before dropping kisses down the line of his chest, soft skin revealed one button at a time.

And this bathroom -- Christ -- it was ripe with possibility. The clawfoot tub would definitely fit two, if they were prepared to get close, and Crowley spent a little while imagining Aziraphale between his legs, lying back against his chest, eyes closed and spine arching as Crowley played with his nipples. But it was the shower that was really doing it for him. No walls, not even a dividing screen, just open to the room -- Aziraphale could walk in at any moment, catch him like this, two fingers up his own arse and using the soft patter of the rainfall shower to tease the head of his aching cock.

Yeah, fuck, Aziraphale would walk in, and see him, and Crowley wouldn’t stop. Crowley would meet his eyes and draw his hand down his shaft, slowly revealing his hard cock. Aziraphale would flush, and stammer, but maybe also lick his lips, and then because this was Crowley’s fantasy and he could imagine whatever he liked, Aziraphale would say something like, “Dear boy, you look like you could use a hand,” and Crowley would shudder, skin tightening feverishly as he’d wordlessly pull his fingers out and turn his back on Aziraphale. He’d -- nnnng -- he’d bend over, feet spread apart, forearm braced against the wall, and Aziraphale would strip and come into the shower with him. He’d take Crowley by the hips and push into him in one long, firm stroke. Then he’d hold Crowley tight -- brace one hand beside his head, wrap the other around his chest, and fuck him in long, slow thrusts, mouth pressed to the back of Crowley’s neck, telling him how pretty he was, how good he was being…

Crowley whimpered as he fucked himself on his fingers, fisting his cock in earnest now. The wet slap of skin against skin, the harsh panting heat of breath in his ear, the touch of another body, oh _god_ , the touch of Aziraphale’s body… Crowley keened desperately and came all over his hand. The water washed it away immediately, but Crowley stood panting for several minutes more, forehead against the cool tile, feeling something within him both stretched and released all at once. Oddly blissful.

* * *

Right, so, bacon, eggs, toast, tomatoes -- shouldn’t be too difficult. Aziraphale hummed to himself as he set everything going in their individual frying pans. Only, the eggs were done much sooner than the bacon, the tomatoes were burning, and Crowley was taking so long in shower (he must have been freezing, poor dear) that the toast had gone stone cold. At least the butter, sitting in the centre of the small kitchen table in its conspicuous butter dish, had had plenty of time to soften.

By the time Crowley finally appeared, Aziraphale had panicked and shoved everything into the oven on a low heat, in the fervent hope that the half-remembered snippet he’d read in passing earlier had been advice and not a warning. When he pulled it all out again, the eggs had an odd, wrinkly sort of skin over them, but nothing else looked any worse than it had going in, so he girded himself, and served up two plates with the toast in a rack.

“How civilised,” Crowley said sardonically, but his cheeks were flushed with warmth and his limbs had a languid relaxation to them, and Aziraphale didn’t take offense. “Pass me the butter, would you?” he added, a devilish cast to his smirk, and oh, that fiend, he _knew_. Aziraphale’s insides squirmed pleasantly, and fluttered up into his throat as Crowley’s fingers dragged along the back of his hand.

Aziraphale had to clear his throat before he could talk. “Tuck in,” he said genially, his tone about as overdone as the eggs, but he forgot all that once he’d got a mouthful of toast and butter. Good gracious, it really was the small pleasures that made life worth living.

“Something wrong?” he asked, when he opened his eyes again to find Crowley staring. 

“Uh, hnyep, ngk, nope.”

Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth self-consciously. “Are you sure?”

“Nyuh, uh, just wondering where the black pudding is,” Crowley said, in what seemed like a valiant effort to wrangle some words into a sentence.

“Ah yes,” Aziraphale said pertly. “I saved it for _your_ turn at making breakfast.”

Crowley leaned back, flinging one arm over the back of his chair, his expression some combination of amusement and speculation. 

“Angel,” he gasped. “I thought I was your _guest_.”

Aziraphale didn’t know exactly what it was, but some quality of Crowley’s removed him of the fear of, well, of being himself. He’d been joking of course -- he would never expect a guest to cook for him. Somehow, Crowley knew that, and responded in such a way that Aziraphale would know that he knew it, which meant he didn’t have to worry himself into backtracking into an apology, and instead they could carry on with this, this, whatever this was. It was so… it was so _freeing_.

“You are,” he said. “And I am about to coddle you beyond the telling, so you can put that lip away.”

“Coddle me?” Crowley asked, leaning forward once more. “Sounds promising.”

Aziraphale, whose mouth was now full of eggs and bacon, made the universal gesture for ‘in a minute,’ and set about enjoying his breakfast in the meantime.

* * *

“Well now, my dear,” Aziraphale said, dabbing daintily at his mouth in that way that Crowley found so offensively endearing. The man could be eating beans on toast, and still set the table with cutlery and napkins. (Not to mention how he _looked_ \-- Christ on a bicycle, as time went on, a regular pre-meal wank was looking like a better and better idea.) Meanwhile Crowley would be slouching against the kitchen counter, shovelling it in like he was trying to speed the Titanic.

“Here we go,” he said around a mouthful of food, just to see Aziraphale’s censuring look. “Got there at last.”

“Forgive me for wanting to enjoy my meal while it was still warm,” he said. (Crowley would, Crowley absolutely would.) Crowley made a few mocking noises. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled for a moment, before they slid away in apparent discomfort. “It’s about the sleeping arrangements,” he continued. “I realised this morning how very cold it gets overnight in the living room. My dear, you must allow me to apologise for subjecting you to such conditions. First I exposed you to the virus, and then I very nearly froze you to death. It’s simply unforgivable.”

“Pfff, it’s fine,” Crowley said. “I’m a survivalist, me. Love a good sub-zero camp out.”

Aziraphale gave him a look of fond exasperation. “You’re a reptile, is what you are. I’ve never known anyone with such cold feet.” (Crowley’s spluttering was entirely the product of the sharp vulnerability that suddenly cut through him, at anyone knowing such a strangely intimate detail.) “Anyway, my point being, that since I am less bothered by the cold, from here on in you will take the bed.”

Crowley’s first response was _no, absolutely not._ For all the same reasons as the first night he’d spent here. But something made him stop, some devious little cog at the back of his brain grinding to a halt before starting, slowly, to turn in the opposite direction.

“You know,” he said casually. “The bedroom is just as cold.”

That stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. “Oh no. Is it really?”

“Yep,” Crowley said. “More comfortable, though.”

“Well, undoubtedly,” Aziraphale agreed with a slight frown.

“Could be a solution here,” Crowley said. “Something comfortable for both of us, and actually warm.”

“Are you--” Aziraphale blushed suddenly as the implication hit him. “What are you suggesting?”

 _Kick over a rotten log,_ Crowley thought. _Find a Saxon hoard._

“I’m suggesting,” he said, “what if we shared?”

“Shared,” Aziraphale repeated, his voice a thready whisper. “Oh, I-- no, I couldn’t. Dear fellow, it wouldn’t be-- it’s simply not--”

“It’s not a small bed,” Crowley said, his wayward brain-cog picking up speed, “and it’s not like I take up much room. Then we could both be comfortable and warm, _and_ we don’t have to have a huge row over who sleeps where.”

Aziraphale still looked pained, and more than a little pink about the face.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley wheedled. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it? Let’s just Morecambe-and-Wise it.”

“Oh all _right then_ ,” Aziraphale finally said, all in a rush. “If you’re absolutely--”

“Adamant, yes,” Crowley said, unable to completely hide his anticipatory smirk. It was filled with the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done.


End file.
